


Insult to Injury

by ineswrites



Series: Kryptonite [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1+1, Abuse, M/M, Slight Ableism, Toxic Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 06:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Or one time Brock didn't care when Jack was hurt, and one time he did.





	1. September 1st 1997

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Подливая масло в огонь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678146) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> First part takes place before Achilles' Heel.

The locker room quickly becomes noisy and stuffed as more and more men gather in, talking and laughing. Parts of clothing drop, the showers start running and mixed scents of various body sprays fill the air, clinging to tongues and irritating throats.

Jack watches all this fuss from his place near the door. There are too many men to focus on just one, and soon he feels a headache coming on. Minutes pass and Brock’s still nowhere to be seen. He must’ve been held back in his office – surely he wouldn’t leave the Trisk without getting changed out of his gear first.

Jack’s gaze crawls over faces until he sees a pair of eyes staring back. It’s Bourne, Brock’s teammate and close friend. Jack swallows thickly and promptly looks away. He doesn’t want any trouble.

It’s been a while since any of the guys teased him. Jack supposes he’s an easy target – tall but slim, with long ungainly limbs, never speaking his mind nor laughing at their terrible jokes. They’re not _bullying_ him, not really, they’re not in high school anymore, and most of the guys are too old for that shit. But there have been snide remarks, poking and shoving, and the taller ones would even smack his head sometimes. Jack can’t say he’s a fan.

They backed off now, but not because they grew to like him. Jack didn’t change nor prove himself as a worthy companion. The team’s attitude towards him improved immediately after Brock showed interest.

But now Brock isn’t here and Bourne advances on him. Jack straightens up, putting his crossed arms before himself. There’s a sliver of hope Bourne’s heading for the door instead, but it quickly dies when he stops in front of Jack.

“Waiting for Rumlow?”

Jack nods. He can’t help but watch Bourne’s hands, just in case he’s planning something.

“He left earlier with Pierce.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Would Bourne lie to mess with him? But what he says makes sense – Jack hasn’t seen Brock since lunch, and if somebody knew where he was, that’d be one of his close teammates.

Bourne passes him as he goes for the door and Jack’s shoulders sag. It’s time for him to go, too.

He’s walking through the parking lot when he hears somebody running behind him. He doesn’t deem it dangerous and that’s a mistake. Before he knows it, he’s shoved so hard he loses balance and catches himself with his hands on a dirty pavement. When he tries to get back up on his feet, a pair of heavy hands holds him down. He glares up and meets a face.

He recognizes the man. He remembers the first time he saw him because it was the first time he saw Brock – a man from nowhere who became a legend, standing and talking to a teammate on the same corridor Jack stood like he was just anyone, not the best student to ever graduate the Academy and the youngest commander of STRIKE in history. He felt unreal with black hair straight out of a shampoo commercial, a mischievous expression on handsome features, cheekbones that could cut glass and a body of a model. There was a young man tucked underneath his arm, a little blond with soft features, looking up at Brock the same way Jack must have. Neither noticed him; he was just a face in a crowd, just a recruit nobody cared about.

But the little blond sure notices him now, and there’s a fire burning in his eyes as he grabs a handful of Jack’s hair and yanks his head back. Jack remembers his name – King. It’s not him pressing Jack down with huge hands on his shoulder and thigh – must be King’s bigger, stronger friend.

“What does he see in you?” King scoffs. “Can’t even fight back.”

Before Jack has a comeback ready, there’s a boot between his ribs that knocks the air out of his lungs.

“Or talk back,” King says. “Not the sharpest tool in the box, are you?”

“Selective mutism,” King’s friend suggests.

“A what now?”

Jack can’t see him from his position, but with his arms pressing him to the hard ground, he can feel him shrugging.

“It’s a disorder.”

King snorts. “Figures.” He fishes out a combat knife. “Should’ve stayed away, shitface.”

He’s so fast Jack doesn’t have a chance to dodge; the blade whooshes right in front of his face, and he jerks back, shutting his eyes. King isn’t strong enough to keep his head in place, but judging by the stinging pain in his scalp, a few strands of his hair remained between King’s fingers. Another kick to his chest blinds him for a moment.

“That’ll teach you not to touch what isn’t yours,” King snarls. “You think you’re fucking special? He’ll dump you as soon as he gets bored, and trust me, he does so fucking fast.”

“HEY!”

King curses under his breath and the hands let go of Jack. Feeling a little dizzy, he rests his head on the ground vibrating from people running around him. He frowns, the headache he’s already felt back in the locker room growing behind his eyes.

“Hey, hey, kid. Kid.”

There’s another hand on the side of his face, cold and calloused. He opens his eyes and sees Bourne hovering over him.

“Are you alright?”

He nods, pulling himself up to his feet. It’s true; he only got a little bruised, nothing big. It could get worse if Bourne didn’t show up, especially with the knife on the table.

There’s blood dripping on the ground between his feet. He frowns. All he feels are his scraped knees and hands and his still sore scalp, so what…

He gives Bourne a puzzled look. Bourne is studying his chin.

“You need stitches,” he says and pulls out his mobile phone.

Jack touches his chin and feels wetness. When he pulls his fingers back, they’re red. His chin is numb. Warm, metallic taste floods his mouth.

“King jumped your boy,” Bourne says to his phone. He walked a couple steps away, but Jack hears everything. “He cut him pretty badly. He’ll need stitches.”

Jack’s heart bounces when he realizes Bourne’s calling Brock, but sinks the moment later as he listens to Bourne’s side of the conversation.

“Okay? That’s all? King slashed his face! He’s in shock! And that’s all you have to say?”

Bourne sighs and massages his temples as he listens to Brock’s reply. Jack looks down at the pavement. The blood’s still dripping, so he wipes his chin on the back of his hand. He still can’t feel any pain.

“Won’t you at least draw consequences? He was seen, along with Woods. They have no place on this team. I’m taking Rollins to medical.”

Bourne hangs up and returns to Jack.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Jack asks, his stomach twisting, though he already knows the answer. He doesn’t quite meet Bourne’s eyes.

Bourne makes an exasperated sound and pulls out a tissue. He presses it to Jack’s chin.

“Hold it. And don’t talk.”

Jack presses the tissue to his face. Bourne grabs his arm and leads him back inside the Triskelion. They get in the elevator.

“Thank you,” Jack murmurs.

“Told you not to talk. Doesn’t it hurt?”

Jack shakes his head. Bourne sighs.

“I warned Brock this would happen. I heard King and Woods talk in the locker room earlier. He could’ve prevented that.”

Jack turns, looking at him wide-eyed. Bourne avoids his gaze, looking straight ahead instead.

“Brock’s a friend, and he’s not a bad guy. But he doesn’t much care for others. Maybe you should think about what’s truly good for you.”

“He is good to me,” Jack protests.

Sure, it would be nice if Brock at least asked Bourne how Jack was, but he can’t be expected to drop everything and run to see his boyfriend every time he gets a scratch. Especially that Jack isn’t Brock’s boyfriend, not really.

Bourne frowns. “If it’s any consolation, King and Woods are fired. You can sue them for assault, but we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

Jack nods. The elevator stops on the medical bay floor and he gets off. Bourne doesn’t follow him.


	2. February 4th 2001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Dark Horse.

Footsteps. Voices. Beeping. A smell of… antiseptic and…? Jack can’t keep up with all the fuss going on around him. Something’s prodding his arm, but his limbs are too heavy to move.

There’s another voice trying to tear through the haze in his mind. Warmth blooms in his chest, and he’s consumed by a desire to reach out towards the source. He’s able to focus enough to differentiate the words.

“Where’s he?! What happened to his fucking vest?!”

_Brock._

Jack opens his eyes. The light’s too bright for comfort. He props himself up on his elbows, his brain registering a dull ache in his lower abdomen. The first person he notices is Bourne, still in full gear, standing near Jack’s hospital bed. He’s facing away from him, and when Jack looks further, he sees Brock, rushing towards him with his brow furrowed. A beam spreads on Jack’s face.

“Hey,” he says, squinting. The bright light makes it look like Brock’s skin is glowing. Like an angel…

“Why didn’t you have the vest on?” Brock’s voice is rough; he’s not asking, he’s scolding.

He raises the covers and looks at Jack’s stomach. Jack vaguely remembers a gunshot, followed by a blinding pain. He must’ve got hit.

“What’re you smiling about?!” Brock snarls.

“You care about me,” Jack replies with a goofy grin.

Brock digs two fingers into Jack’s side and a howl draws itself from his throat. His skin breaks out in a cold sweat as his vision whites out from the searing pain flaring up in his insides. He kicks out, trying to get away, but there’s no escape.

“You think this is a fucking game?!” Brock growls.

“Please,” Jack huffs out, his hand landing on Brock’s arm, barely pushing.

The pressure on his wound lets up, and he takes a deep breath, blinking away the tears that built up beneath his eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, though for what, he’s not sure.

“You better be,” Brock grumbles.

The weight of his hand is now completely gone. The covers drop back on Jack’s chest and he closes his eyes, a small smile returning to his face as he listens to Brock’s voice order Bourne not to disturb them. He hears footsteps followed by the click of the door closing, and then a plastic chair squeaking as Brock sits down. Jack can almost feel the warmth radiating off him, he can hear his soft breath and smell the scent of his sweat, gun smoke and that awful spicy body spray. With his eyes closed, he feels like he’s floating in Brock’s very essence.

It must be the drugs.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he croaks out.

Brock only hums in response.


End file.
